


Making Your Acquaintance

by tarinumenesse



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, First Meetings, Love at First Sight, M/M, Romance, Sylvain should be a warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26660944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarinumenesse/pseuds/tarinumenesse
Summary: While attending a ball at the house of one of his closest and only friends, Dimitri makes the acquaintance of an unusual (and frustratingly handsome) fellow.A Regency AU inspired by a typo.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 12
Kudos: 77





	Making Your Acquaintance

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when one admits to accidentally typing "Englishman Byleth" in place of "Enlightened Byleth." Shout out to Emi and Stilisi for instigating this.
> 
> I have made use of Regency slang and so have included a glossary in the endnotes for readers unfamiliar with it, as well as a few historical notes regarding True Events and People. All unusually placed capital letters are intentional.
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy this small, frivolous escapade.

There was a certain comfort in dressing for a ball. It was practised, it was methodical. It was private and it was safe.

Well, as safe as a waterfall knot could be in Dimitri’s hands.

He groaned in frustration and dropped the ends of the necktie. His valet Maxime, ever patient, ever good, did not move from where he stood beside the gilt, full-length mirror. He did not speak either. Ever patient, ever good.

“Help,” Dimitri said.

Maxime did not smirk, did not smile, did not mock. He did nothing but take a neat step forward and get to work, his fingers moving in a fantastic flurry but never once striking Dimitri on the chin. Pure magic. When he took a long stride backwards again, Dimitri saw the results of his efforts in the mirror: a perfect ballroom tie. Much more appropriate for the evening’s festivities.

“I’m sorry, Maxime,” Dimitri said. “I fear I am a great disappointment to you.”

“Not at all, my lord,” Maxime replied. He turned and picked up Dimitri’s waistcoat. “You will never be an Exquisite with a knot named after you, like Lord Gautier, but you possess the more essential qualities in abundance.”

Dimitri slung his arms through the waistcoat’s armholes. Maxime guided it into place and began his minute adjustments.

“You need not flatter me,” Dimitri said as he fastened the buttons, a small favour he could do his valet.

“Nonsense, sir. It is not flattery.” Maxime retrieved Dimitri’s coat, one of fine black silk and wool. “However, I do have one request in regards to your attire this evening.”

“And what is that?” Dimitri asked, tugging on the cuffs of his shirt to fix the shape of the coat over his shoulders and arms.

“I would remind you that you are wearing knee breeches and ratafia does not look well on white stockings.”

Most personal servants would never dare utter such a suggestion to their employer, but Dimitri’s relationship with Maxime had always been of the more unusual sort. Without his assistance, Dimitri would have been eaten alive by Society after his return from the tour (at least, more thoroughly than he had been). Such a service afforded the valet certain liberties, especially in regards to spilled food and Dimitri’s laundry.

“I understand,” Dimitri said. “I will endeavour to avoid all alcoholic beverages.”

“I would not object to you enjoying a brandy, sir. After all, I understand Lord Fraldarius has reason to celebrate. It would be remiss to not congratulate him at whatever point he decides to abandon the party.”

“Thank you, Maxime. I will heed your words. One glass of brandy.”

*

“My most sincere congratulations,” Sylvain said, holding his glass aloft in Felix’s direction.

Dimitri imitated him from where he sat, with one leg crossed over the other, in the duke’s favourite bergère chair. Maxime’s prediction had been on the money; it was only an hour since Dimitri’s arrival at Kryphon Hall and he was already absconded in the duke’s personal study with his closest—excepting only Dedue—friends, Lord Felix Hugo Fraldarius, heir to the Fraldarius dukedom, and Lord Sylvain Jose Gautier, self-proclaimed Exquisite and Swell of the First Stare, and less notably heir of the Gautier margravate.

Felix acknowledged Sylvain’s toast with a grunt as he dropped the stopper into the crystal decanter.

“I never picked you for the most romantic among us,” Sylvain continued, “but here we are. Engaged to a baron’s niece.”

Felix turned and leaned against the Duke’s liquor cabinet, his glass hanging languidly from his fingers.

“What of it?” he said. “Miss Dominic is a gentleman’s daughter.”

“And you are the future Duke of Fraldarius,” Sylvain replied before taking a sip of his brandy. “I expected at least an earl’s daughter.”

“Titles are not everything,” Felix said.

“They certainly are not. If they were, yours would have granted you a modicum of civility,” Sylvain said. “Imagine retreating away to your father’s private study in the middle of the Event of the season. And kidnapping the crown prince, who graces your father and your guests with his presence, while you’re at it.”

Dimitri lowered his glass from his lips.

“I would not say I _grace_ them with my presence,” he said.

Sylvain flicked his hair from his eyes, the movement drawing attention to the perfectly tied Gautier knot at his throat. Dimitri found himself staring at it, trying to decipher its intricacies.

“You are right,” Sylvain mused. “Perhaps grace is not the right word. What of endanger?”

Felix snorted into his glass and Sylvain presented a dashing grin.

“Endanger then,” he said. “Felix, how dare you deprive your guests of the pleasure of being _endangered_ by their future king?”

Dimitri shook his head as he placed his glass on the table at his elbow.

“And what of you, Sylvain?” he asked. “When may we expect an announcement regarding your bride?”

Sylvain lifted a hand over his heart, splaying his fingers across the perfectly cut lapel of his tailcoat, unmistakably fashioned by the one and only John Weston, Fhirdiad’s most famous tailor. Weston had refused Dimitri’s requests for an appointment nigh on three years now. Apparently even the prestige of outfitting the crown prince could not convince him to subject his creations to the hazards of white soup (unfortunately, an aversion entirely justified by the witness testimony of the entire ton).

“I, my dear Dimitri, am determined. There is no lady, in all of Fhirdiad, who will tempt me away from the sweet freedom of eternal bachelorhood.”

“What of the opera singer?” Felix asked.

Dimitri raised an eyebrow.

“Sylvain, you promised me,” he said.

Sylvain blinked, the perfect picture of innocence.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You haven’t set up another mistress,” Dimitri replied.

“Dimitri.” Sylvain crossed the room and laid a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder. It was a severe breach of social etiquette to touch the crown prince so familiarly, but Sylvain and Felix were Dimitri’s friends, and with that came certain privileges. “I’ve had a thought."

“Dare I ask?” Dimitri said, looking up at him.

“You dare, and you have,” Sylvain said. “So do not pommel me.”

“Sylvain.”

“Let the three of us cut this party and visit the lady abbess.”

Felix spat his brandy back out into his glass.

“You did _not_ ,” he exclaimed.

Sylvain raised his free fist towards Felix in some sort of offensive defence.

“His Highness asked,” he said.

Felix slapped his brandy glass onto the top of the liquor cabinet and straightened.

“I repeat, Sylvain, you did _not_ suggest that we leave the ball at which I will announce my _engagement_ to Miss Dominic in order to visit a _brothel_.”

“Not a brothel, my dear Felix,” Sylvain said. “The finest establishment of the demi-monde, of course. Why should you be so offended by such a suggestion?”

“My banns will be read next Sunday,” Felix bit off.

Sylvain spluttered. “Next Sunday?” He twisted his neck to look at Dimitri. “Did you know this?”

Dimitri smiled and took a sip of brandy.

”I will be _married_ in a month,” Felix confirmed.

“Well,” Sylvain said, folding his arms while expertly balancing his glass, “I’m at sixes and sevens. Is she…”

“Don’t.”

“I insist you…”

Before Felix could utter another objection or make his point known in more violent terms, the door opened. Dimitri rose by force of habit before he saw that the intruder, fingers still clutching the door handle and looking mightily confused, was a man. A very handsome man in a suit a little too grey and a cravat tied in a poor imitation of the Mathematical. His dark, messy hair fell into his face, drawing attention to his startling blue eyes.

“Who the devil are you?” Felix snapped.

“I beg your pardon,” the intruder said. “I find myself terribly lost.”

His voice was soft and gentle, and utterly entrancing. There was nothing in it of Felix’s harshness, nor Sylvain’s overwrought charm. It was pure and ignorant of the foolish gravitas of the ton.

“Yes, but who are you?” Sylvain repeated.

“Oh.”

The man lifted his hand from the door and performed a neat bow. Dimitri couldn’t help but admire the natural grace with which he moved. The voice and dress did not signify a life spent amongst the cream of Faerghus society, but there was some form of breeding in the gentleman.

“Mr Byleth Eisner, at your service.”

“Do you have an invitation?” Felix demanded, striding towards Mr Eisner as though he would insist upon seeing it.

“Of course, sir,” Mr Eisner replied, looking bamboozled. “That is, my father has an invitation, and it specified that I also was welcome.”

“Your father?”

“Captain Jeralt Eisner, sir.”

Not a single person in Fódlan was unfamiliar with _that_ name, the name of the Hero. Captain Eisner had taken command of the Faerghan fleet at the Battle of Albinea after Admiral Lonato (goddess rest his soul) suffered a fatal wound. Within hours, he had sent the Leicester fleet flying back home, twenty-two ships short.

And so Felix came up short, while Dimitri regarded Mr Eisner with new, more educated eyes. The identity of their intruder’s father went a long way to explaining his manner. Although he was the most famous man in Faerghus, Captain Eisner was not of blue blood. His son would have been raised with the instruction of a Faerghus gentleman, but his familiarity with high society’s quibbles and fashions would be limited.

Therefore, the suit.

“Captain Eisner is in attendance?” Dimitri asked Felix.

Felix shrugged. “Ask my mother. She sent the invitations.”

At that, Mr Eisner’s face fell. Dimitri felt his embarrassment. It caused something of a stab of sympathy in his chest, from having been thrown into similar situations care of his own ineptitude.

“I’ve wandered into the family rooms, haven’t I?” Mr Eisner said. “Truly, I beg your pardon. Only tell me the way back and I’ll leave you in peace.”

Sylvain glided in front of Felix.

“No harm done,” he said, grinning. “If you go left and take the staircase, then take the second right, it will lead you to the card room.”

Mr Eisner bowed again.

“Thank you. My most sincere apologies.”

And he was gone.

“Now,” Sylvain said, turning back to Felix as though nothing had happened, “your…”

“Excuse me,” Dimitri said, shoving his brandy glass into Sylvain’s hand as he passed him.

“Dimitri?” Felix questioned.

Dimitri ignored him.

*

Dimitri caught Mr Eisner on the stairs and dropped his hand on the man’s shoulder. The next moment, he found himself looking at the Adrestian glass chandelier above him, with Mr Eisner standing between his sprawled legs and pressing one hand against his chest, the other raised ready to strike. In the time it took Dimitri to blink, Mr Eisner’s expression turned from determined to startled. He yanked himself away from Dimitri and descended a step.

“I am so sorry,” Mr Eisner said, holding out his hand again, this time in kindness.

Dimitri didn’t accept the offer, instead propping himself up on his elbows as he recovered his breath.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Habit,” Mr Eisner answered promptly. “Please, allow me to assist you.”

At that, Dimitri took Mr Eisner’s hand. He registered its warmth before he was hauled to his feet. Butterflies flocked in his stomach at such an unabashed display of strength.

“That is quite a habit,” Dimitri said, dropping Mr Eisner’s hand before his traitorous body summoned a blush to match the swarm. He brushed down his coat. “I have never…oh no.”

“What is it?” Mr Eisner asked, sounding alarmed.

Dimitri dropped back down to sit on the step and twisted his leg to examine the tear in his stocking.

“Maxime is going to have my guts for garters,” he muttered.

“Oh goddess,” Mr Eisner swore. “I am so sorry.”

Dimitri frowned and looked up at him.

“I did not mean literally,” he said.

Mr Eisner blinked slowly. “No, of course not,” he said.

Dimitri bit back a smile and returned to his stocking. The damage was minimal, with only a small amount of skin visible through the hole, but according to Maxime’s standards it was beyond repair. He would suffer the consequences of this for _months_.

“Would you like mine?”

Once again, Dimitri’s eyes were drawn up to Mr Eisner’s hypnotic ones, the colour of the ocean on a clear day.

“Your stockings?” he queried.

“Yes.”

This time Dimitri could not hold back his smile.

“That would be rather…unorthodox,” he said.

“I only suggest it because I sense stockings are a great deal more important to you than they are to me.”

Dimitri chuckled.

“If you met my valet, you would understand,” he sighed as he pushed himself back to his feet. “As kind as your offer is, I must refuse. I am afraid Maxime would know the difference between my stockings and a stranger’s at a glance.”

“Oh.”

Mr Eisner studied him for a long moment, so intently that Dimitri was certain he could see the cogs turning in the other man’s mind. He tried not to dwell on how endearing that was.

“In that case,” Mr Eisner said, “I can only offer my most sincere apologies, Mr…”

He trailed off, in the age-old custom of people unsure of to whom they spoke.

“Dimitri,” Dimitri supplied. “Dimitri—”

Looking into Mr Eisner’s expectant face, Dimitri’s heart thudded. He had but three friends in the entire world—Dedue, Felix and Sylvain—and there was a glaringly obvious reason for that.

“—Molinaro,” he finished, wishing an apology to Dedue.

“My sincere apologies, Mr Molinaro,” Mr Eisner said with a bow.

“There’s no real harm done,” Dimitri replied. “I’ve dozens more stockings. I’m sure Maxime will be able to muster a new pair.”

At that, Mr Eisner smiled. It was so dazzling, so wretchedly handsome, that Dimitri felt his insides twist and rearrange.

“I’m glad,” Mr Eisner said.

There followed another long moment of silence. Dimitri could not conceive of a dratted thing to say. So he stared, hoping Mr Eisner would break it, while Mr Eisner stared back at him, causing Dimitri’s pulse to dance a veritable reel.

Finally, Mr Eisner cleared his throat.

“I should return to the ball,” he said. “I’ve encroached on the family’s privacy enough, I think.”

“I’ll join you,” Dimitri said.

Mr Eisner opened his mouth and closed it again, before saying, “You will?”

“Yes,” Dimitri said. “I will.”

*

Dimitri led Mr Eisner not to the card room, where he was certain to be immediately addressed and identified, but to the promenade outside the ballroom. There, the young ladies taking air began to giggle and whisper in his direction, but without an introduction none of them would dare approach. As there was no one present of sufficient rank and acquaintance to do the introducing, Dimitri’s deception could stand, at least for a short while.

“Do you frequently attend these gatherings?” he asked Mr Eisner.

“No,” Mr Eisner said. “We were rarely invited to them before the battle. And if we were, I was not included in the invitation.”

Mr Eisner stopped by a garden bench and sat without waiting for Dimitri to do so first. The novelty of it was scandalously refreshing.

“What of you?” Mr Eisner asked, looking up at Dimitri.

Dimitri took a seat.

“I come to whatever gatherings are deemed appropriate,” he said.

“Appropriate?”

“Yes.”

Mr Eisner nodded. “I understand,” he said. “My father wanted me to attend this ball in particular because he thinks it will help me find a suitable wife. Now that he has the captaincy, he says I need only marry right and I’ll have a better future than any Eisner ever hoped for.”

“Do you wish to marry?”

Mr Eisner frowned. As Dimitri watched, his eyes moved, following the trajectory of the couples dancing inside.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “But it seems to be the only thing these people talk about.”

“The ton?” Dimitri laughed. “Indeed.”

“I’ve already made the acquaintance of several heiresses,” Mr Eisner continued. “Each one less appealing than the last.”

Dimitri crossed his arms over his knee. “I would not let them hear you say that.”

“My father taught me to speak my thoughts.”

“Then he did you a disservice,” Dimitri said, glancing towards the ballroom. Viewed from the darkness of the promenade, it reminded him of his stepmother’s tiaras, bright and glittering, the women the jewels in their coloured fashions stolen from the pages of _Ackermann’s Repository_ , and the men, a uniform black and white, the setting.

“A disservice?” Mr Eisner asked.

“These people do not speak honestly,” Dimitri said, with a prick of guilt. “You must take care. To the eye, they are beautiful. They will charm you with their manners and wit, their lace, feathers and trinkets. But beneath they are cruel. There are only a handful of them I trust. The rest gossip and cheat, and will not hesitate to cut you down if you displease them. Their tongues are sharper than swords. I do not want you to suffer their malice.”

Mr Eisner tapped his fingers against the seat.

“You speak from experience,” he said.

Dimitri smiled bitterly. “My position subjects me to the highest scrutiny. I am afraid that my manner and…I confess, my clumsiness, mean that I rarely come up to scratch. In Sylvain’s terminology, I am something of a gollumpus.”

“Your position?”

Dimitri choked. He _choked_ , on absolutely nothing, drawing startled looks from the young ladies on the promenade. Mr Eisner began to slap his back, as though that would clear his air pipes.

“Are you well?” he asked.

Dimitri nodded, despite the tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. When he managed to stop coughing, he smiled at Mr Eisner, trying to summon a little of Sylvain’s charm.

“A demonstration, if you please,” he said.

Mr Eisner did not laugh at the joke. He looked at Dimitri with narrowed eyes. Dimitri waited, curling his fingers into fists, dreading the inevitable…

And Mr Eisner shrugged and looked back at the ballroom.

“I’m supposed to be dancing with Miss so-and-such, I believe,” he said, changing the topic entirely.

“Do you wish to go inside?” Dimitri asked.

“No.”

Mr Eisner’s frown deepened a moment. Then he turned to Dimitri with a rather earnest look.

“I don’t suppose I could consider you a friend at this point?” he asked.

Dimitri nearly choked again, but managed to transform it into a rough bark.

“A friend?” he echoed.

“Yes. I have a vague idea that, after what you’ve said, I should gather some allies,” Mr Eisner said. “And you’re the first person to have spoken plainly to me all evening. Also, I think you’re the type that my father meant when he spoke of moving in the right circles. You are friends with the duke, aren’t you?”

“I am?”

“You were in the family’s rooms.”

Dimitri shook his head, cursing his slippery memory.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, of course I was. I am close with Lord Fraldarius, his son.”

“Then will you consider me a friend too?”

“Because of my connection with the duke?”

“That. And because I trust you.”

An ugly worm of remorse ate its way through the elation Byleth’s proposition brought. Dimitri averted his eyes to the ground, wondering how he could admit the truth now.

“Call me Eisner,” Mr Eisner said, shoving his hand into Dimitri’s line of sight.

Dimitri looked up. There was a measure of desperation on the other’s face. Taking it in, a seed of affection rooted in Dimitri’s chest and he took the offered hand.

“Molina— “

“Your Highness!”

“—damn,” Dimitri finished. He caught Mr Eisner’s befuddled expression before plastering a smile in place and standing to meet Duke Fraldarius.

“How may I be of assistance?” he asked.

Duke Fraldarius looked from Dimitri to Mr Eisner. His face lit in recognition.

“Mr Eisner,” he greeted. “I’d wondered where you disappeared to. Miss Martritz missed you for the quadrille.”

Mr Eisner stood slowly.

“Apologies, I got lost in the house,” he said. “And I fear I stumbled into the family rooms.”

“No apology is necessary on that account. I see His Highness located you, so there is no damage done.”

Mr Eisner swallowed and fixed wide eyes on Dimitri.

“His Highness?” he questioned.

Dimitri couldn’t help but wince as he spat out, “Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, at your service.”

There was a long moment of silence, as Duke Fraldarius and the young ladies within hearing range ogled them. Meanwhile, Mr Eisner stared at Dimitri, guarded, wary in a way that was agonising when compared with his prior conduct.

“Forgive me, Your Highness, but I believe it goes the other way around,” he said finally. “Mr Byleth Eisner, at _your_ service.”

Duke Fraldarius smiled politely, the esteemed mask anyone of Quality used to hide their discomfort, confusion or disappointment. Dimitri dared not place a bet on which it was in this instance.

“Your Highness, Felix is about to make the announcement,” he said. “Will you accompany me?”

“Of course,” Dimitri said, wrenching his gaze away from Mr Eisner to follow, his heart sinking as he heard the young ladies chortle and mutter.

*

Dimitri did not comprehend a single word of the announcement. He vaguely registered the applause as Miss Dominic took Felix’s hand. As he offered his public congratulations, he felt absent from his body. Not even Felix’s suspicious frown could pull him back.

He could not overcome the feeling that he had committed a Colossal Error.

Too late, too late, it was too late. After his ridiculous little speech about the evils of the ton, how could he hope to apologise to Mr Eisner for breaking his confidence? And within minutes of making his acquaintance! Perhaps Mr Eisner would not have known his—no, that was foolish talk. Who in Faerghus did not know the name of the royal family?

He had made an absolute _cake_ of himself.

When the formalities were done, he felt more than saw Sylvain slither up to his side.

“So did you catch your Rum Duke?” he whispered.

For not the first time, Dimitri wished they were at the fencing ground instead of a ball so he might give Sylvain a thorough beating.

“Cheese it,” Dimitri replied, turning away.

Sylvain only blinked.

“Profanities, Your Highness,” he said. “Speaking the words of the commoners. But he was, wasn’t he? A handsome fellow, though his togs need some attention.”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Of course you did, his coat was _grey_.”

“Perhaps he is unfamiliar with the customs of the ballroom.”

“ _No one_ is ignorant of the fact that one is supposed to wear black at a ball and brown in the country.”

“Well perhaps he is,” Dimitri said, despite the frailty of the argument. He moved to walk away.

“You made a mull of it, didn’t you?”

Dimitri stopped. He turned to Sylvain, taking a moment to survey the other people in the room, thankfully mostly occupied in gushing over the newly engaged couple. Sylvain waited for him to finish his inspection, with that particular air of authenticity that only surfaced when he was truly concerned about someone.

“Yes,” Dimitri sighed. “Yes, I did.”

“I saw him in the gardens,” Sylvain said, nodding towards the exit. “He requested of his father that they leave, and when the good captain refused, he escaped out there.”

Dimitri hesitated. He wanted to make it up to Mr Eisner, but he was also painfully aware that he was like to…well. Make a further mull of it.

“Attempting an apology never harmed anyone,” Sylvain said, interrupting Dimitri’s internal debate. “Not even me.”

Dimitri sighed and nodded.

“You’re right,” he said. “Thank you. Excuse me.”

“Of course. And Your Highness?”

“Yes, Sylvain?”

“Your stocking is ripped.”

*

Dimitri searched along the torch-lit walk for a good twenty minutes before he found Mr Eisner. He had wandered deep into the gardens, further than any of the other guests would venture at this time, in the early hours of morning when the night was the coldest. He was beside—no, _in_ the ferns. The leaves reached to his waist, and he swam among them, his hands brushing their tops. Dimitri had never seen anything so bizarre. Nor so intriguing, he thought, as he approached under Mr Eisner’s stern stare.

“Is this an attempt to escape Miss Martritz?” Dimitri asked, trying to be jovial.

Mr Eisner’s expression remained fixed.

“I thought the royal family had attendants who followed them around,” he said.

Dimitri stopped at the edge of the garden bed.

“Duke Fraldarius is a trusted friend of my father,” he said. “I am afforded a greater amount of freedom in his house than any other.”

“I understand,” Mr Eisner said, in a way that suggested he had not expected an answer. He turned his side to Dimitri and studied the ferns.

“What are you doing?” Dimitri asked, his curiosity getting the better of his wit.

Mr Eisner shrugged. It seemed that would be the extent of his response, and so Dimitri adjusted his stance and clasped his hands behind his back, preparing for the apology.

“I didn’t have a normal upbringing,” Mr Eisner said before the apology could commence. Dimitri snapped his jaw shut. “I’m aware of it. My father was away at sea for most of my childhood, and he entrusted me to some relatives in the country. When I became an adult I learned that they weren’t relatives at all, just kind people who wanted to help a widower. I found that disappointing because they were very good to me. They loved me well and indulged my every request. I ran wild. I would chase after bugs, jump in mud puddles, swim in the lake, whatever I fancied.”

He bent over, bringing his eyes closer to one of the leaves as he caressed its veins.

“And tonight,” he said, “I fancied looking at the ferns.”

Dimitri drew in a breath. “I see,” he said.

Mr Eisner turned towards Dimitri and waded through the ferns. When he drew close to the edge, Dimitri felt a compulsion to hold out his hand. Mr Eisner halted and stared at it, before accepting the offer and leaning on Dimitri for balance as he escaped the garden.

“You don’t need to apologise to me,” he said shortly as he tugged his waistcoat back into place.

“I don’t?” Dimitri said.

Mr Eisner shook his head.

“I ran wild as a child, but when I became a young man I was brought to town and given a more traditional education. My father never wanted to me enter the navy, you see, and he thought if I could learn how to behave like a proper gentleman I’d have a better chance at something. I still don’t know what. In any case, I learned quickly that the freedom I’d known in the country was something of a rarity. I suffered enough learning to be a gentleman that I shudder at what it must be to learn to be a prince.”

Although Dimitri had caught the gist of Mr Eisner’s speech, he found himself lost somewhere in the middle. What was astonishing was that it was not the words that had muddled him—Dimitri was quite adept at following odd tangents of conversation, so often being the instigator of them—it was the face, the manner, the spirit of the person who spoke them. A Singular, Persistent beating commenced in his chest, and although he recognised it for what it was, he dared not believe it. Raised in his position, he had never dared to expect it.

“Nonetheless,” Dimitri said, deciding to take a safe course of action now that Mr Eisner had worn out his words, “I apologise. It was wrong of me to lie to you.”

“So it was because you dislike being a prince?”

Dimitri shook his head. “No. To be frank, I do not greatly mind being crown prince. It can be stifling at times, and lonely, and it does make me the subject of the on-dit. But I do not mind being a prince.”

Mr Eisner frowned. Dimitri recognised the expression from earlier, when they had been watching the dance from the promenade, and realised it was a sign that he was trying to make sense of something unexpected, to solve a puzzle.

“Then why did you lie?” Mr Eisner queried at length, apparently unable to figure the answer.

With heart racing and heat creeping up his neck, Dimitri laid down his cards.

“I did not wish to miss the opportunity of getting to know you.”

Mr Eisner pressed his lips into a tight line, but he did not shy away. Dimitri had never met anyone so brazen. He was enthralled.

“I see,” Mr Eisner said eventually, in a tone that suggested he did not at all.

Dimitri took a breath and turned towards the house.

“Would you walk back with me?” he asked. “I would like to hear more about this education of yours.”

“Which one?” Mr Eisner asked, falling into step beside him.

“Your childhood. If you don’t mind. Eisner.”

Mr Eisner turned his head and smiled at Dimitri. Only one word came to Dimitri’s mind to describe it: mesmerising.

“I prefer Byleth, to be honest,” he said. “Eisner’s my father.”

“Byleth,” Dimitri repeated carefully. The breach of protocol, the intimacy of calling someone he had just met by their first name, was stunning and utterly addictive. Or was it because of the person to whom the name belonged?

Byleth bowed his head. “I would be honoured to tell you about my education, Your Highness,” he said.

Such formality in return couldn’t be borne. Dimitri stopped Byleth by placing a hand on his arm.

“Dimitri,” he said as their eyes met.

Byleth looked confused, almost fearful.

“Lord Blaiddyd?” he ventured.

Dimitri shook his head. “Dimitri,” he insisted.

For a long moment, they stared at each other, neither willing to back down. Then something flashed in Byleth’s eyes, causing a shiver up Dimitri’s spine. Before he could query it, Byleth started walking towards the house again, concentration sweeping over his face.

“Where to begin…” he muttered as Dimitri chased after him.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Regency slang**  
>  exquisite: a highly-fashionable gentleman  
> swell of the first stare: again, a highly-fashionable gentlemen  
> ton: the collective name for polite society in Regency England  
> cut: to depart  
> lady abbess: term for the madam of a brothel  
> demi-monde: the edges of polite society  
> at sixes and sevens: confused  
> gollumpus: a clumsy person of large stature  
> to make a cake of oneself: to make a fool of oneself  
> rum duke: a happy, handsome fellow. Alternatively, an odd, eccentric fellow  
> cheese it: be quiet, shut up  
> togs: clothing  
> to make a mull of it: to mess it up  
> on-dit: gossip (from French)
> 
>  **Historical notes**  
>  John Weston was one of the most famous tailors in Regency London and provided clothing to the king.  
> The Battle of Albinea is Fódlan’s Battle of Trafalgar.  
>  _Ackermann’s Repository_ was one of London’s fashion magazines.
> 
> If you have enjoyed this nonsense let me know, as my years of devouring Regency-based novels, films, series and non-fiction have finally served a Purpose and I would be happy to indulge more.
> 
> I am at [twitter](https://twitter.com/RuneTari).


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